


forget most, remember some

by slipstream



Category: Supernatural, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Crossover, Flash Fic, Gen, Spooky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 02:00:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipstream/pseuds/slipstream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He only ever catches it at night, and then only when Sam’s asleep, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts, the headlights-pierced dark, and the hum and click of poorly-patched highway whirring under the Impala’s tires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	forget most, remember some

He only ever catches it at night, and then only when Sam’s asleep, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts, the headlights-pierced dark, and the hum and click of poorly-patched highway whirring under the Impala’s tires.

The first time he hears it they’re busy putting as many miles as they can between them and Tuscaloosa, Sammy bloody and slumped heavily against the passenger window (but not concussed thank god, thank _god_ ) and Dean wired on his second or third shoplifted energy shot in as many hours. The all-night blues station he’s been clinging to for company crackles with static, fades, only to come back strong with a plinking of piano keys like something out of fucking NP goddamn R. He smacks at the console in irritation, jittery and in no mood for _All Things Considered_ , but then a man’s voice curls out of the speakers cool and quiet and soothing as a damp cloth against a fevered forehead and he listens, entranced at first and then frowning with increasing confusion. Just as soon as he’s convinced himself it’s fiction (how else could he be picking up on this bit of community radio clear across the country) the broadcast ends, Townes Van Zandt picking up mid-chord right where he left off.

The second time he hears it they’re in the wilds of Montana, lost (not that Dean will admit it) and so far out from anything that might be considered civilization that the empty hiss of the radio has long since become white noise in his brain. Dean’s half-certain that he’s imagining the quiet murmur of voices, shaping the loving, repeated whispers of a single name out of the nonsense patter of sleet for want of anything else to listen to.

The third time the radio’s not even _on_. He grabs at Sam instinctively, fingers cold as they clench tight around the denim of his jacket and _shake_ , but by the time Sam’s blinked into wakefulness the voice is gone again, clicking off mid-syllable as suddenly and implausibly as it had first clicked on.

When he’s in a good mood Sam thinks he’s making it all up just to fuck with him. Like raining lions and inter-dimensional portals and men with forgotten features going door to door with suitcases full of buzzing insects is Dean’s idea of a good time. When he’s in a bad mood and they’re low on leads and monsters to kill and crushed under the weight of the apocalypse he thinks the little desert town and the smooth-talking dj with a voice that carries from Maine to Baja is just Dean’s attempts at lifting his spirits, a carrot to dangle out in front of their car, give them some sense of direction, of purpose.

Night Vale, AZ, doesn’t exist as far as Dean can tell. Not according to their maps (and they have a lot of fucking maps), not according to the internet, not even according to the dusty bowels of the Arizona State Cartographer’s Office (they’re in Phoenix on the trail of a werecoyote with a taste for snowbirds; Sam shouts at him for wasting time when they’re supposed to be plotting old mine shafts it could be using as a den).

They sure do have a hell of a radio station, though.


End file.
